Second Name
by Lambystories
Summary: A high school band lacking talent, and a classical prodigy who might have have a chance to turn their luck around. Craig/Tweek, ongoing


The bickering and bitching had begun.

Rain bounced off the metal rooftop and the group of teenagers incased underneath carried out their quarrel. Every other month the argument is brought up: "We're not good enough." "We're never going to make it to the big leagues." "Why should we even bother?"

The teenaged boy living on the property was the first to retreat, shaking his head and slamming the garage door connected to his kitchen behind him. Three boys remain. A blonde had his finger in a shorter, tanned boy's face, who slapped his accuser's hand away as they continued to scream at each other. The last boy remained silent, sitting on an ancient hand-me-down amp as he observed the whole scene. As known, this scene happened every so often, and ended with the quiet boy walking out with a mask of indifference underneath his hood.

A couple days will go by, and things will go back to normal. The shrouded boy thought this as he wandered down the sidewalk, heavy drops of precipitation pelting his shoulders and the top of his head, and he realized walking back home was a bad idea. But it was part of the routine.

Everything will be back to normal.

Craig Tucker and his sucky band, on the road to nowhere fast. But they're going down it together, which seemed to make up for it in a cheesy, family way. That bond always seemed to be the only thing keeping him there. If Craig just answered a random ad for a guitar player and it went astray even once, he knew he would high tail it out of there without a second thought. He puts up with the headache of his current band because they're his friends. While he wouldn't admit it out loud, he didn't want to imagine a high school career without them; or the opposite, constantly having to follow each other all the way to graduation, with awkward stares and grudges that may never fade.

Music was Craig's life. Music was good. The concept of melophobia baffled him. If anyone hated music, it was because they hadn't found the genre right for them. That's it.

And Craig's genre was nonexistent. He admired his music to be of _unique_ taste that couldn't be named, and wouldn't deny the egotism that may seep into declaring it such. He liked metal, but nothing with a lot of screaming. "Rock" was a word that felt too silly, like referring to your stomach as your belly or your underwear as your undies. So was "alternative," but he admired groups that created tranquility. Then there's a hundred other little snippets of country, tech, oldies, Celtic, progressive, ska, grunge, hard, pop—

Titles just weren't necessary to him. It all sounded so silly for some reason. Craig rather people just give him a chance to shove his headphones in their ears than having to try and explain what he likes. "Oh, you know," he would attempt to begin, but his brain would be overworking trying to find the right words. "Progressive-electronic-sci fi-modern, heavy to soft alteration metal?" Yeah, that was a promising taste.

He didn't want to give their band a genre either. But the question always came up. They're a garage band, pursing rock and roll—cliché Battle of the Bands-like dreams didn't stray too far from their minds.

When the band felt they weren't getting anywhere in their popularity or their talent, the fight would break out. It wasn't like they should expect to get noticed by some agent, or at the very least a bar owner, right away. Their equipment had been handed down to them by older or distant relatives, given as Christmas presents, bought at yard sales, and the like. They rarely budged out of Chris's garage, and lost out on a chance with the talent show last year because Craig had the flu.

Craig considered himself lucky with his own treasure of a guitar. Managing to convince his parents to pay for half of it as a birthday present, the kid landed himself an electric Fender for his sweet sixteen, putting aside his grandpa's old acoustic for good. He was so happy he kissed his mom for the first time since he was in kindergarten. (Almost in a happy enough daze to do the same for his father, but the temptation for touchy-feely thanks was coughed off by both of them.)

The instrument was packed away securely in the case he lugged on his back, one hand staying fastened to the strap across his chest, but his fingers were wet and starting to numb from the cold, along with a growing irritation from the heavy rain falling on him. He _really_ should have chummed a ride off of one of the guys instead of walking out per the norm. Autopilot just kicked in with all the yelling, he figured.

Everything will be back to normal.

Once everyone's cooled off and got their self-esteem back in order, they'll resume going back to making their shitty music with a shitty fan base (a very small one at that.)

Normal.

Unlike the traffic outside of the main street theater.

"What the hell."

Years and years ago, South Park got a taste of the classier part of live entertainment, graced with presence of big Broadway shows like Wicked and Jersey Boys—not that Craig knew what the latter was about. (The only musical he ever wanted to see was the Lion King, and that was when he was twelve and had no idea there was a different, unanimated version of it until some substitute teacher mentioned seeing it back in New York.) South Park had decent business until the theater flooded, seemingly gone for good, when it was restored just a couple of years ago. Hosting the big-name musicals was a chance long gone, with the theater instead taking in obscure plays and concerts that tended to only be famous state-wide.

But Craig had never seen so many cars occupying one street in this town. Actually, the whole block was framed by parked vehicles, along every sidewalk and in empty lots for the local businesses, gathering to witness whatever spectacular performance was happening inside.

Curiosity pegged him enough to j-walk across the street to sneak a peek at the commotion—and to find drier shelter under the large overhang. Rain beat down on it from above, creating the same annoying drumming that hit the garage he escaped from some ten-odd minutes prior, but the lights on its ceiling illuminated his soaked figure and square borders on the walls that framed posters. Future and previous events were advertised—some plays with French titles, performances from numerous Colorado colleges, musicals based on a few titles he remembered reading for his past English classes (all of which he had loathed.)

But the poster advertising what Craig gathered to be tonight's event was not incased with the 11x17 squares lined up with the rest. Much larger banners framed the double-doors in the front, and an even more enormous advertisement hung above. The art had a thick black border, trapping in gradients of gold behind a black silhouette at a piano.

"IN SOUTH PARK FOR ONE NIGHT ONLY—" the text around the figure read, "THE PRODIGY OF THE CLASSICS: MASTER TAYLOR! 7:00 PM TO 9:00 PM, THIS SATURDAY, PERFORMING PIECES SUCH AS—"

So it was a kid the town was wetting themselves to see do Mozart, or whatever else. Not that Craig was interested in concerts with one star performer, unless it got him and his instrument out of the rain, and into a temporary warm haven.

He tiptoed his way to the doors, slowly creaking his way in. The lobby was surprisingly bare without a ticket master or security guard in sight. And, oh, how it was a lot better than chilling in the autumn night.

The guitar case was removed from his shoulders as Craig slid down into one of the sofas, its plush irritably dented away by the years of use and his own wet clothes dampening it. But he was comfortable and warming up quickly. He pushed his hood down to run a hand through his dark hair. A couple minutes into his relaxation, a clamor of applause broke out inside the theater, its entrance a few meters away.

The clapping was polite, not yet marking the end of the concert; only the pause for another piece to be played by the kid up front. The doors between the two areas had windows atop them, but from Craig's angle he couldn't see the stage. He still wasn't interested enough to care for the moment. Getting the warmth back into his body and hanging with the weight of his guitar off his back was all that mattered. He pulled out his phone and checked the time: 8:42. The concert would be over soon and he'd get out of there before he was trampled.

The soft stream of a simple melody started to flow through the air, barely audible enough to penetrate the walls and reach Craig's ears. He closed his eyes and folded his hands inside his hoodie pouch. With his legs outstretched he let himself slide and lounge as the song continued, wiggling his toes inside his sneakers. It wasn't impressive. If anything, it was just a cute little tune.

Then the tempo picked up with the volume. The crescendo and speed growing alongside each other created a tense but exciting new atmosphere for the song. New notes reached the surface and came to life. Craig could practically see in his mind a small pair of hands moving at an impossible speed, building the song up stronger and louder and more powerful _and absolutely impossible and nerve-wracking._ It wasn't human. It couldn't be. Not for a child. The mental image of fingertips crushing down on white keys and black bars was frantic, lightning fast, making Craig's stomach turn when the picture grew to a hunched Beethoven-like figure folding into himself in the midst of his madness, hands never relenting in their smashing.

Craig opened his eyes to rid himself of the image, his vision already locked on the doors. The work within the theater didn't sound like smashing at all. Though quick and frantic, it filled the hall with precision and grace, rather than violent madness.

This kid was amazing. And it pissed him off.

Full of talent at a young age, the theater so honored to have him, and the townsfolk scrambling in for a Once in a Lifetime Opportunity. While Craig and his friends had nothing but a raincloud constantly pouring down on them everywhere they went—metaphorically and, presently, literally. A petty jealously of "_how dare someone younger be better than me"_ took over Craig, and he couldn't help it. He hoped the kid really _was _reeling into a pre-Beethoven mentality of insanity and deafness.

He wanted to satisfaction of seeing it for himself.

The song continued on when Craig opened the set of doors leading into the giant hall, echoing all the way to and through him. The lighter notes tinked and sparked pleasantly and rapidly, lower but evenly-matched measures falling behind in harmony. All eyes of the town's residents were straight ahead, oblivious to the fuming teenager's intrusion. He looked around, finding the theater's security, thankfully, lined up on the left and ride side of the theater, instead of the back end he was entering through. With long last check over his shoulder at his guitar, Craig crept in and closed the doors softly behind him, eyes darting between the guards at all times. When the last noise of entry was muted, he dared to move along the wall and hide in the shadows. The stage was ways away down the aisle. And it did not hold what Craig expected.

The performer was young. But not the child prodigy Craig pictured. The seated figure gave the same stature of a young individual, as the silhouette in the printed images offered seated on a piano bench, but in the flesh he was clearly in his teens. His shoulders were wide and straight, bending forward slightly when a quick run escaped his fingers, then fixing his posture when the music calmed. His fingers were long and thin, as were his arms, giving him the perfect advantage over the vast stretch of the piano's many keys. Even from the distance between them Craig could make out a long, straight nose pointed downward, and large eyes staring in concentration over his work—the fucker didn't have sheet music. Yet, Craig concluded, the most captivating feature of the boy was his hair: wheat-blonde and smoothed back, with stray locks jutting out against his neck and behind his ears. The way the lights hovered above him and perched on the foot of the stage illuminated it, making the edges glow with thin translucence and a nearly perfect white. The sweat gathered on his forehead made it and his cheeks shine; however, the boy was a professional, not letting himself show how exhausted he was so easily.

Envy evaporated from Craig's system and churned into awe. He watched the blonde's shoulders roll and his hands smooth gracefully over to their next destination. There was no room for insanity or madness in his being. The sounds he made without saying a word were beautiful, with a determination and form to match. Craig's eyes squinted and strained to catch the precise moment each note was hit with his eyes, but those trained hands were too quick to catch one key at a time.

Worse, he physically felt a hand seize him by his own arm.

A grizzly man in a vest gruffed at Craig, turning a few heads from the back-row audience. "Do you have your ticket?"

Shit. Craig reluctantly tore his eyes away from the stage to glare at his captor. "I'm trying to find my parents."

The lie was clear as day and the guard knew it, tugging him by his elbow back towards the doors. "No ticket, no show," he huffed back.

"But the show's almost over anyway," Craig shot, trying to wriggle out of the man's grip. The audience a few rows ahead whipped their heads around to look at him, a few shh's to boot that got them a middle finger in return. "I can't watch the last five minutes?"

"No ticket, no show," the man repeated, monotonous duty-voice wavering with annoyance. Craig gave up and let himself be pulled—until he realized he wasn't being pulled back to where he came from. They were heading to the right side of the hall, out the side door. Away from the lobby and Craig's guitar. That was when the boy started to yank himself away from the man's hold, pushing against him and kicking against a few chairs in the process. Now half of the theater had their attention on him, shooting him looks of disbelief and anger.

Before Craig was thrown back out into the rain, he caught one last glimpse of the blonde on the stage. The boy's eyes were already on him, still able to work his fingers in a continuous flow of wonder without slipping up. He had a straight-on view of his eyes—wide in surprise and confusion, until the view and warmth of the theater disappeared and the exit door was slammed in Craig's face. He scowled at the piece of metal and pressed his ear to it, desperate to hear the last for the boy's performance.

The sound was too muffled; worse than back in the lobby. He wanted to dart back in to enjoy it and grab his instrument, but still didn't want to meet a second of the song. He could make out another escalation in power, reaching a grand finale—and ending on one final note that echoed out.

There was nothing but silence inside, until the applause erupted. Unlike the previous round, it lasted for more than a few seconds, and Craig could imagine a standing ovation. He wanted to be part of that too. He wanted to see the boy bow, to finally show how worn out he was with a muted sigh—because he was amazing. Two hours and he put up the rednecks of the town (Craig could hear a few hoots, inappropriate for a formal occasion.) Maybe he even wanted to meet him.

Craig rushed back toward the theater's entrance, soaked as he was when he first arrived- but was met with a wave of townsfolk retreating to their homes for the night, talking excitedly like they had been blessed by royalty. The brunette frantically pushed and shoved his way against the current of the crowd, which had met him with resistance and rudeness. Maybe some of them were victims of his trashing and outburst from before. He didn't give a shit. He needed his guitar more than anything, if he couldn't get to the star of the show.

It took even longer when the crowd became aware of the weather and paused to pull out their umbrellas or put their hoods over their heads, but Craig finally managed to get back inside. The lobby was clear, save for a few stragglers.

And his guitar. Gone.

No. That couldn't happen. There was no way in hell that Craig wouldn't notice it be taken off by some stranger in the chaos—he practically had radar over the thing. Running back outside was easier than what it took to previously get in, and half of South Park was back on the road homeward bound. No one carried his black case over their shoulders, or down by their side.

Gone.

Being pelted by the rain didn't matter anymore. He could barely feel it, and his shivering subsided to an overall numbness. From the cold or from his loss, he didn't care to know.

All gone. Lost after nearly two years of ownership.

A light sound was trying to reach Craig's ears, but he was numb to it too. He didn't want to deal with anything. He could freeze to death in the garbage, and wouldn't hear anything about being too damn dramatic. That instrument was his baby.

The noise—a voice—continued to pester him, until its owner resorted to tapping him on the shoulder. His numbness shifted to rage, and his nostrils flared as he whipped his head around at the offense interrupting his moping. Blue eyes shot daggers at a trembling pair of brown. A very large pair of brown.

Lo and behold, the prodigy stood recoiling his hand back to his chest, the other clutching at the edge of his fur-trimmed hood. Underneath the fashionable black coat was the small hint of the tuxedo jacket he wore on stage, slacks and shining shoes to match. Craig felt inferior and somewhat embarrassed, his worn hoodie soaked through to his undershirt, his legs shaking under his jeans, and his scuffed shoes holding his ground as he stared back at the blonde. He let his anger go, shifting his expression to surprise. And blonde in turn seemed to relax, but broke the gaze shyly and looked at his feet. Craig followed, and saw a case sitting by his expensive-looking dress shoes.

A _guitar case_ to be exact, to which had Craig beaming excitedly noticing the familiar details; the few stickers that he only stuck near the bottom edge, the scuffs and scratches near the top, and the fiery red strap that eased the struggle of mobility.

The blonde's quiet voice attempted to reach him again, this time working more efficiently. "I-I take it it's yours?" Craig nodded immediately, making the other sigh in relief. "I saw it in the hall, all by itself! E-even the case looked expensive, and the guitar itself, I didn't know what would happen if—"

Craig finally found his voice to cut him short. "You opened it up?" He didn't mean to sound threatening or angry in any way, but the blonde shrank back further into his coat. His shy demeanor was much different than his confidence on stage, and his eyes darted back around their feet looking for an excuse.

"There was a name on the inside," the boy squeaked back. "It's on the back of your sweatshirt, too."

Oh. Duh. Craig glanced down at himself, mentally congratulating his efforts to play basketball long enough to get his name on some poorly-designed article of clothing. Said-article soaked to the bone like the rest of him, while the performing stayed nestled in his own wear. Heavy droplets could be heard bouncing off the thick fabric that covered him, making it the only audible exchange between them before Craig cleared his throat. "Thank you. Shit, I was about to throw myself in the dumpster."

The boy let himself smile a little, straightening himself up (more casual rather than performance-perfect.) "I-I honestly thought the security already did."

"You saw that," Craig stated. He straightened his case over on to his back to avoid displaying an embarrassed gaze.

Blondie was about to say something else when other voices started to penetrate their exchange into the alleyway. He looked over his shoulder at a bustle of eager older fans and music-fanatics waiting to speak to him, the guards asking them to wait and patiently requesting for the star to come up to fulfill their wish.

"Um, I guess…" the boy started stammering, looking at a loss of what to do, before he started digging in the pockets of his slacks.

Craig flinched back at a pair of tickets being shoved in his face. Then the boy drew back his hand, thinking over whether one would suffice, but shook his head and brought both slips of paper back to his face. Craig hesitantly brought them to himself between his thumb and forefinger, unsure of how to speak again.

The blonde looked like he wanted to explain himself, but the guards pestered him once again, and the prodigy reluctantly parted the alley and their awkward exchange. He disappeared around the corner and under the theater overhang, not before he gave an anxious wave to a dumbstruck Craig, who continued to be showered down on and holding the tickets out in front of him.

After leaving the alley himself Craig could see the teenager encased in a circle of people, calmly and politely asking him various questions about his music, his inspirations, his goals, and etcetera. The boy would nod or chuckle as he replied, his tone full of modesty, actual words drowned out by the rain before they could reach Craig's ears. Craig gave him one last lingering look before making his way behind and past the crowd, and decided to examine the free tickets he was so graciously given.

A show in Canon City, Colorado. On Wednesday, the same 7 – 9 time as the town got today.

Starring a Tweek Taylor; child prodigy extraordinaire.

What a weirdass name. But the kid saved his bacon, with his mentality and his parents. And deep down, Craig really _did_ want to hear him perform beginning to end.

He didn't know he gave a bother over the classics, or people who were clearly more gifted than he. He wanted to be angry like he was before. Instead, he was curious.

Before Craig reached his home, he backtracked to snatch one of the posters hanging in the front; treasures stuffed in his pouch, hood up, instrument secure, and striding home.


End file.
